by Dan Alter Luke Porter Like campfires on a dark hillside, furling heat faded but I have their names I shouldn’t say, M, D in a bed dragged into trees, vague musty guest room, N for an hour upstairs, R a doorway, flares pointing to where the plane would land. World melts to body, K on floor-tiles, a bare mattress with Y near the sea, was it night, it was, their names touching down, taxiing. Body all tongues, doubled breaths, unearthly. A bunk bed L, V on her couch, what did

by Dan Alter Chris Chow Had they split his throat like Moses’ rock so his singing would break that way? Back in Black bled from Peter Fischer’s boom box, shouldered, its solo blistered all the way to the meet. They had no-one else as slight, so I handed my body over. Peter a weight class above me wore his anger like a helmet, picked out blond fro floating around broken-out face. What Black were we Back in? Locker rooms, hard edges of guitars buzzed through the dim days. Week